


Very Serious

by hyphyp



Series: Tumblr Fics [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Fluff, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 15:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6158501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyphyp/pseuds/hyphyp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q drags Bond out of an avalanche.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Very Serious

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from [castillon02](http://castillon02.tumblr.com): 00q, huddling for warmth, bonus points for bond as the really cold/hypothermic one!

Q doesn’t like the outdoors. He doesn’t like being cold. He doesn’t like being wet. He doesn’t like the feeling of his lips chapping, the warmth and wet of his tongue evaporating from them moments after every swipe, or the crusty sensation of snot dripping and drying around the edges of his nostrils, or the glare of the sun reflecting off the snow and forcing him to squint so hard his cheeks hurt, even behind his prescription sun glasses. He doesn’t like any of it – he hates it, actually.

“When we get back,” he says through panted breaths, “I’m wrapping up with a blanket and my cats and thick, dry socks and I’m not getting out of bed for anything for a week. Do you hear me, Bond? Not even for the end of the world.”

Bond, hidden beneath the fresh white sheet the avalanche had left as it ripped down the mountain side minutes before, does not hear him.

Q tears off his waterproofed gloves and tosses them aside, digging with his bare hands, scraping away handfuls of ice and dirt and rocks and too much snow. His fingers go red and hot with pain, then numb away to blunt points at the ends of his wrists. Still, he digs. At last, he sees a dark spot, a piece of black fabric dusted with white but sticking out and dancing in the slight breeze. Heart pounding, Q grabs it and pulls, shoving snow aside and clumsily unearthing Bond’s upper torso. He’s unconscious and unnaturally pale, skin freezing to the touch of even Q’s trembling fingers.

Q curses and hoists Bond half over his shoulder, draping the larger man in an awkward half-carry half-drag, and begins tromping down the mountainside as quickly as he can. He’s not sure what direction he’s going, only knows that all the towns are down and the enemy is all that’s up. The nearby tree line offers a bit of cover, and he heads for that, all the while horribly aware of Bond’s weight. Luck is on their side – a small wooden wilderness hut appears through the trees, sheltered beneath a large outcropping of rock.

The door sticks but gives with a solid push when Q tries it, creaking open on badly rusted hinges. The inside is dark and musty, filled with a stench of abandonment. By the light seeping through the thick, dusty windows, he deposits Bond on a wooden bed frame and begins rummaging through the hut’s cabinets in search of supplies. There are some cans of evaporated milk and one of black beans, a ball of thick string, a sharp-ish knife, and a flashlight with dead batteries. He ignores all this for the moment, diving for a white metal box with a red cross on the lid when he spots it under the sink. He rummages through and relief floods through him when he finds what he needs – a thermal blanket, still crisply folded in its packaging, and a box of matches with three left inside.

Q returns to Bond and begins stripping him out of his wet clothing. At any other time he would be embarrassed or intrigued or a combination of both at the sight of Bond’s muscular abdomen, a canvas of scars. But he feels oddly removed from the moment. All he feels is dread and determination, even as he pulls off Bond’s pants. He wraps Bond in the blanket as tightly as he can, massaging Bond’s ghost-white toes slightly as he carefully tucks them in.

Q can count on one hand the number of times he’s been camping, all of them when he was a child and still beholden to the expectations of adults who considered themselves his superiors in both experience and intellect. He regrets, now, his reluctance to learn anything to do with wilderness survival. He has three matches, three chances to build the fire necessary for Bond’s recovery, and none of his usual confidence. His fingers shake badly as he shoves the burnt remnants of old newspapers into the center of the hearth.

“It’s not rocket science,” he mutters to himself. “It’s a fire.” His lips twitch with the beginnings of a hysterical smile. “Fire. A fire needs fuel, oxygen, and heat. I can do this.”

There’s a stack of logs next to the fireplace, and he pulls four of these out and uses the knife to slice off slivers of wood small enough to serve as kindling. His strategy is to start small and add more, larger pieces as the fire grows. Hopefully it grows. After building a small pile of wood over the scraps of paper, he strikes his first match and lights the pile. It catches the paper, but fizzles out into smoke shortly after. Q grunts in frustration and rebuilds the pile, shoving more wood shavings in to replace the paper. The second match catches successfully, but he watches warily, building the fire up to a solid size before relaxing.

That done, he places the cans on the floor near the hearth where he’ll be able to grab them easily, then begins stripping off his own clothes. He lays them out next to Bond’s drying garments and tries not to think about exactly what he’s about to do.

Bond’s fingers and toes are still white when he checks them but there’s more give to them when he pinches, a bit of red returning to Bond’s flesh. Q drags himself and Bond over toward the fireplace, Bond nearer to the fire, and wraps them tightly in the blanket, pressing their skin together. Bond’s skin is freezing and Q gives an involuntary shiver as his own hot body meets it, his teeth clattering together. He settles in, head on Bond’s chest, listening to that slow beating sound.

At some point he must nod off, because the next thing he knows, Bond is stirring. Q sits up abruptly, nearly pulling away, but a strong arm snakes around his waist and pulls him back down.

“’S cold,” Bond mumbles, still blinking awake.

“Of course it’s cold, you idiot,” Q says, cheeks warm. “You have hypothermia. That’s what you get for causing an avalanche.”

“I was trying to bury them, not us,” Bond says. He shivers and pulls Q closer, cutting off his retort.

Q flounders for a moment and then scowls and warns, “You had better not be getting fresh with me, Bond.”

Bond’s lips curl into a lazy smirk. “I would never, Quartermaster.”

Q rolls his eyes, but he can feel the minute tremor of cold in Bond’s frame and doesn’t pull away again, relaxing into Bond’s hold.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says after a moment’s silence. “Saved me from the avalanche, I mean. Our chances would have been much better the other way around. You could have died.”

“Is that an official reprimand?” Bond asks.

“Every reprimand I give you is official,” Q snaps. “But you ignore them anyway.”

“And I didn’t die,” Bond says. “Don’t waste your time worrying about ‘what if’s. You’ll only drive yourself mad with it.”

“Too late, you’ve already driven me there,” Q gumbles.

Bond pulls one hand free of the blanket and cards it through Q’s hair, examining him closely. Q’s scalp prickles at the touch but he relaxes into it after a moment.

“You look different,” Bond says, contemplative.

“I haven’t got my glasses on,” Q says.

“No, that’s not it,” Bond says. “Let me take a closer look.”

He leans in until their noses touch and then even this small gap is crossed, Bond’s cool lips pressing insistently against Q’s own warm mouth. He kisses slowly and softly, as though asking for permission, and then, when Q doesn’t pull away, he pushes harder, opening his mouth and scraping his teeth against Q. A bloody shark, Q thinks, but he has barely enough brain left to think even that as he parts his lips and feels Bond’s tongue snake its way inside and tangle with his own.

A log on the fire shifts and falls, snapping loudly, sending sparks flying, and causing Q to jump back in surprise. Bond chuckles and ducks his head to press his lips against Q’s neck.

“You’re impossible,” Q says, his face deep red.

“You should be kind to me, Q,” Bond says with mock seriousness. “I’ve just had a near death experience.”

“You’re about to have another,” Q says and shoves Bond lightly on the shoulder. “We’re trapped in a cabin in the middle of the Alps with no means of communication, barely any sustenance, with heavily armed enemies searching for us as we speak, and you’re suffering from hypothermia. Don’t you ever think about anything serious?”

“All I ever think about,” Bond says, “are death and sex. Very serious.” He grins. “Shall I show you?”

He tugs at Q, suggesting rather than forcing, and Q hesitates, then follows Bond back down to the floor with an exasperated sigh.

“You’re impossible,” he says again. “Completely impossible.”

He has more to say on the subject, but Bond devours it, smothering all speech out of Q with a highly proficient mouth.


End file.
